Locked up indoors, old men now spar with death,
And rev their lungs with yogic exhalations.
Beyond their gates, afloat on every breath,
Spit-fired specks haunt careless conversations.
Life does not start at sixty after all,
Years are the real measure of our ration,
The Fonda lust for youth up to the pall,
Turns out to be a passing boomer fashion.
Age isn’t in the mind, it is addition;
It’s sugared blood and sitting down to pee,
Oldness is the underlying condition,
That effs our chances in this lottery.
(But still, we are the chosen of this age
‘Coz Lennon was our bard and Bob, our mage.)